Morrison (Caldwell Brothers)

My car comes to a stop in front of me, and I look her over. She is perfect, so my guy gets a pat on the back and a fifty. It may sound like a lot, but I’ve worked for tips, too.

I roll up to the Cosmopolitan and do the same drill: I hand my keys over, I tip, I talk, and I treat them like humans, ’cause they are.

I decide to change things up a bit and play a little roulette, followed by some blackjack. I do well, make some bank, and get a finely dressed lady trying to distract me with her cleavage and her hand under the table, on my thigh.

“You find what you’re looking for?” I ask as her hand makes its way up my leg.

“Not yet. But I will.”

“Oh, I see how it is. You wanna be boss, do ya?”

“I love to be the one calling the shots,” she says before her teeth rake her lower lip.

Chick is a biter and pretty damn dominant, too much for my taste.

“Look at me, beautiful,” I command.

“I am. I’m looking, and I’m feeling,” she replies.

I stop her hand before she hits gold by covering it with my own. “Look deeper. Do you see a man who likes to bottom?”

“I promise you’ll like my bottom,” she says as she tries to pull her hand away.

I hold tighter and pull it to my lips, give the back of her hand a kiss, and then place it on the table.

“I don’t like to be given anything. I like to take it.”

She is put off by this. How do I know? Her tell. Her shoulders square, and then she looks straight ahead to the dealer.

Dominant-ass women are not my norm. I’ve had them, and it was always an experience. You lie down with a hardcore, kinky feminist, and she thinks she’s not just gonna ride your dick, but drive it. Well, she’s got another think coming, but she herself ain’t gonna be coming.

The last dominant chick I played with, honest to fuck, tried shoving a pinky in my ass.

No thank you.

To get to me, there needs to be a softness about you. I’m all man. I like the game, a little hunt and capture. If a woman shows interest, that’s cool. If she comes on too strong, I tend to shy away. I love strange, but not that fucking strange.

I want to work a woman up. I want her wet and wanton. When I lay you down, you better be all woman: mind, body, soul, and desire. You better be ready to be pleasured and give pleasure. I haven’t had a woman yet who wants to take charge, because she is too busy taking me.

The body is a beautiful thing, and I love beautiful things. I want to make sure, when you walk out my door, you know you’ve had it good and plenty.

I look down and lift my cards just enough so I can see them—two aces. I split ’em up, add some chips to the bet, and then the dealer hits each one.

“Feeling pretty lucky, are you?” the chick with the wandering hand asks.

“Luck has nothing to do with it.” I flip my cards—two blackjacks, both a winning score with kings.

That’s one of my quirks, too. Kings of the same color tell me I should be happy with what I have, so I collect my chips and start to stand.

She looks up at me and shrugs her shoulders. “Your loss.”

“Baby, I’m a winner all the damn time, and my night isn’t over. Maybe I’ll catch you around.”

I walk away, twelve hundred dollars ahead in two hours. I hadn’t planned to stay this long, but I am winning.

Seeing my car come around and stop beside me, I motion for the guy to pull forward because I can’t fully inspect her if she’s in the shadows. When he pulls up, I walk around her, then hand him a fifty and I’m off. The last stop of the night is gonna have to be Caesars.

I walk in to find the place is packed, so I look around for an open table, but don’t see one. What I do see is a group of four chicks eye-fucking me, and these girls are from money. I cannot only see it, but when one walks past me, I can fucking smell it.

I look down at her feet and spot perfectly manicured toes sticking out of her Fendi peep-toe slides. I slowly look up to see legs that are smooth and golden tan. I know damn well she is freshly waxed. Her little black skirt hits above her knees, but not too far up. She is wearing a pink, silky-looking, tank-style shirt. Her long black hair is in loose waves, and her dark brown eyes meet my gaze. She is classy in an old-money kind of way.